From Down Here
by the.english.roses
Summary: Isabella Swan was once many things, including a prodigal musician attending Julliard. Four yrs. later she is working full time at a grungy diner. After a series of abnormal occurrences, she is emerced into a world of dark vampires & danger. DARKWARD
1. Four AM

It was four o'clock, Bella noted as she glanced up at the red clock above the shop entrance, four o'clock in the morning. She sighed as she finished wiping down the last grungy table surface. The diner would close in two more hours, Bella often told herself, "Just an hour or two more, then you can go home." It helped her get through the long, 24-hour shifts she had been enduring for the past year.

She went through the usual routine, mopping the dirty tile floor, cleaning the dark windows, and refilling each table's various condiments, just like always, pacing herself to the Oldies station emanating from the diner speakers. Sometimes when she was especially bored, she would swing her hips to the music as she mopped, but not tonight. It seemed the heavy downpour of rain outside the diner seemed to match her mood perfectly. Dark, dreary, and miserable.

Just a few hours prior, Bella spent her twenty-fourth birthday cleaning out the diner's filthy restrooms, with no one to keep her company but the recluse cook, Jim, frying the occasional customer's order behind the swinging wooden door behind her. Jim never spoke to anyone though, being cold and bitter to most, so his silence never bothered her.

It was times like these, when Bella was left alone at the early hours of the morning, when her loneliness would deeply depress her the most. She was just locking up the register for the night when the shrill bell jingled from the entrance, followed by loud high heels clicking on the tiles. Bella immediately looked down at the puddle of water sitting under the stiletto red heels at the door, already reaching for the mop, when she saw the shadow of black fishnet stockings on the woman's unnaturally pale legs.

She had forgotten that the strip club two blocks away closed at four in the morning.

The sight stirred up a memory Bella had long since forgotten. She found herself remembering flying in from New York to visit her cousin during the holidays, Melanie Cooper, during the short ride they took on their way to a lunch gathering in Chicago.

_Melanie's eyes left the neon building, her head shaking in disgust and disdain. "It sickens me that the city allowed this establishment to be built so close to the theater, don't you agree?" Her sharp eyes darted at Bella, waiting for a response that Bella was reluctant to give. _

"_Yes, the location is quite inconvenient for tourists, I'm sure many people agree with you, though," Bella murmured in response, glancing at the brick building as it passed. She was unsure of whether she should contribute to the topic, knowing of Melanie's tendency to overreact and rant._

_Melanie was rather unpleasant, even though she was family to Bella. She took a great deal of pride in herself, always admiring her corn-silk blonde hair and her intimidating, beautiful eyes. She was everything Bella was not, completely opposite, but that didn't stop Melanie from insisting Bella visit her from time to time. _

_As Melanie took out a small compact mirror, Bella turned the pages of the Chicago Sun Tribune in her lap and scanned the daily news, her eyes found the front page story. A story that made her breathing halt, along with her ability to move. There he was, clad in his usual business suit and tie, smiling up at the camera._

'_**Charlie Swan Dies at 49, police are still investigating murder...'**_

_Bella found that she could no longer read through her distorted vision, and she quickly swiped at her blurred eyes to avoid Melanie's questions. Not even a month ago, Bella had just returned from her hometown in Baltimore, Maryland, to attend her father's funeral, and she had not recovered, to put it lightly. She had been devastated, but did her best to avoid breaking down in front of what seemed to be the entire business world at the service. The cameras' would have loved that. Another great story line to draw in attention to the front page. __**'Swan's daughter, Isabella, cries for her father's untimely death!'**_

_Her father's multimillion dollar corporation, including it's associates, attended as well, which roughly translated to thousands of people. It was extremely nerve-racking, and Bella felt miserable the entire trip, but she had to be there for her grieving mother. She had to be strong for her mother, because if she crashed and burned, who would care for Renee? Surely not her distant relatives across the country who never bothered to make any contact with us._

_Bella swallowed the growing lump in her throat and shoved the newspaper to the floor of the limousine rather too forcefully, but she diminished the potential of conversation with Melanie by turning to face the tinted windows, finding comfort in the beautiful scenery passing by at blurring speeds. Autumn had painted the city leaves scarlet, burnt amber, and gold with time. Downtown Chicago was a lively, and beautiful part of the city where poverty and crime was lacking-here, the people thrived. Women and men of every kind crowded across the street corners, some with briefcases, others with shopping bags, moving together like a single force. _

_Her eyes flickered from face to face, seeing a newspaper stand, a young bicyclist, a couple sharing a table at an outdoor restaurant, and then, a mother and her child._

_Bella didn't have to know if they were in fact that- mother and daughter. It was painfully obvious to her. The warm, motherly glow the woman radiated as she held her little girl close to her chest, the small girl's hands framing her mother's laughing cheeks as she giggled right back, dimples and all. The sight made her chest tighten and tug, but she couldn't force her gaze away until the very last second. _

_Bella never could have children. It was physically impossible, unless she adopted, and she simply didn't have time with her education possessing every waking moment of her life._

_She was a musician, breezing her way through Julliard's full-ride scholarship. It wasn't easy, but it wasn't difficult either. Bella already had dozens of symphonies and orchestras already lining up careers for her, waiting for her to join them-whether or not she surpassed their expectations at Julliard or not. Her parents expected this of Bella, but it didn't lessen their pride of their gifted, only daughter. _

_Long ago, even at the age of eleven, she had mastered nearly twelve instruments, spending her childhood days inside the bright music room, a tudor instructing her over her shoulder as she played to her utmost potential. Her fingers would ache and blister, her shoulders would tire, her spirits would waver and her frustration would burst forth, but she never gave up. Because even as a child, she knew it was her purpose, what she was born to do._

_Each single instrument was special to her; having some specific place in her, but she was most favorable of the piano. It was her fiery passion, never seeming to bore her like other instruments would occasionally. It was certain that her fingers were designed to glide up and down the ivory keys, like they had a mind of their own, moving in a frenzied, all consuming path across white and black._

_She had been preparing for Julliard her whole life, growing up with the best possible education, tudors, and specialists to push her to her fullest potential. _

_Isabella Swan would be the best musician in the world. Everyone in the music world knew this, they expected this, to them, like it was as certain as the sun rising. _

But that was four years ago.

Bella was pulled from her memory by the sound of someone clearing their throat. She snapped her head up at the girl and her ears got hot as she saw her roll her eyes. The girl must have only been in her early twenties, she wore blood-red lipstick, slightly smeared, her black eye makeup as well, which made her all the more intimidating, as it made her look harsher, more angry. Her short hair was dark from being soaked, but it was pitch black and tangled in a disarray on top of her head. She wore a long, black trench coat that was still dripping with rain water, and Bella didn't have to look to know what she was wearing underneath.

She was a stripper.

The girl ran her fingers through her dripping, tangled hair while she took a seat on a barstool to the left of the register, then began tapping her long red nails noisily against the counter.

"What can I get you to drink?" Bella forced out as politely as she could at four o'clock in the morning, pulling out her notepad and pencil from her apron.

"Yeah, coffee. Black." The girl's voice carried out hypnotically, and Bella felt the words vibrating in the back of her throat as her sharp eyes connecting to Bella's own.

Bella's feet inched back almost interperceptably, it was a natural response she didn't even understand, but was too stunned to consider. There was an unspoken instict that told Bella that this girl's eyes were clearly a warning sign, a signal that had Bella thinking nothing but running out the goddamn door. Not a single trace of humanity was found in her fridgid stare. Her eyes weren't just looking up at her, they were searing, uncomfortably wide and unblinking...and hungry. It was raw and black as Hell's depths, and so animalistic that Bella's heart beat picked up into a chaotic hammer, a hammer that had the girl's dialated, wide animal eyes trained to her neck, her full crimson lips pulling back just enough for Bella to see the unnaturally sharp white of her teeth.

A chocked sound nearly escaped, but Bella smothered it with a shaky inhale and sealed her lips. "Alright," She managed, barely able to speak through terrified jumbled thoughts.

She turned and with shaking legs, took her order, noticing Jim no longer working with a worried glance at the empty kitchen through the circular window, and returned a minute later with the girl's coffee, chanting soothing words of comfort the whole way back. It didn't help––but another sight did ease the panic raging through her body. When she came in sight of the girl, she found that her face was no longer intimidating. On the contrary, it was a soft, wistful expression, focused on the ugly tabletop. Her eyes had shifted to a slightly human light, and she noticed with astonished eyes that she no longer saw pitch black under her dark purple eyelids, but rather...butterscotch gold that was startlingly visible even across the diner.

Her shoulders that had once held high had folded on herself, caving in slightly, and her lips were softly singing to the scratchy song emanating from the speakers. The difference was drastic. A new, powerful, maternal feeling rose in Bella. She wanted to do something for her, but didn't know what at the time. She still remembered the empty black stare from earlier, but it wasn't near as terrifying. Bella felt like she could relate to this girl––that same expression plagued her own face nearly every day.

Once the song ended, Bella sighed and walked over to the girl, coffee mug in hand. As she neared, the girl's eyes once again filled with ink black, her leather trench coat shuddering noticably. Hesitance filled Bella and she swallowed her fear and set the mug down. A single drop of sweat gathered at her brow. "A-Anything else?" She studdered, watching the alarmingly rapid rate at which the humanity drained from her face.

"Nothing," she snapped in a single short breath. Bella waited for the expected intake of breath––she watched her so intensely, as if it would be her neck if she blinked or even turned her gaze––and her heart picked up speed at the realization. _She doesn't breathe._

"T-that'll be a dollar-fifty, Miss." Bella didn't know what to say as she watched the girl pull a couple of dollars from inside her corset under the trench coat, not showing a trace of shame. She seemed as comfortable as someone checking a wristwatch, with the exception of her annoyed, unsatisfied expression. Instead of handing Bella the change, she smacked it down on the dingy brown table, making the condiment holder rattle and jerk noisily, and pushed past her as she shoved her way out of the booth, nearly sending Bella tumbling to the ground, striding to the door. Bella wordlessly watched with furrowed brows as her black trench coat blended and disappeared into the night, the downpour of rain drowning out the click of her red stiletto heels.

She looked down at the coffee mug at the table where she sat. The coffee was untouched and cold.


	2. From Rooftops

Alice's POV

Her desire to know the significance of the unplanned visions of the girl led Alice to cross the barren street corner, her heels leading a straight path to the local diner through the heavy downpour of rain that soaked her from head to toe.

As she closed in on the illuminated diner windows that left an eery glow on the puddle filled pavement, she first caught the girl's scent. Along with aging grease from the kitchen, mildew from the rotten ceiling paneling, and the usual pungent rank from the bathroom stalls. They were barely noticeable––the refreshing, sweet berries and delicious floral filled sweetness that had her thoughts scattered was much too desirable. It tenaciously attacked her throat with licking, searing pain and a firey vengance––swallowing would hold no comfort, nothing would qualm the sensation that barely could even compare to years and years of tortuous thirst in a barren desert. Her throat, dry and burning was causing her to imagine the devastatingly pleasurable sensation of warm, soothing sweetness pouring down her cracking mouth, like the most desirable ambrosia. It was Hell on earth, bringing forth a century of hatred and malice of her sufferage, and even a dose of passionate rage for the human race.

This...torturous scent; it was unlike any other smell––it had her years of composure and control barely hanging on a rapidly tearing, fragile thread. She knew by the way her vision sharpened and her pupils adjusted to the conditions of the darkness and heavy rain, by the way her loose limbs suddenly locked and shuddered violently in preparation for a sudden lurch forward; she knew that her predatory, wild nature was about to dominate her control, meaning this girl...this pessamistic little human was likely to lose her life, and there wasn't a damn thing out there that could help her. This girl was about to meet her worst fucking nightmare.

The inner creature in her now possessed most of her thoughts, and until she finished her task here, she would remain in this state––this constant mental state of war against her set objective and defiance of her inner beast. It didn't waver her motives in coming tonight, though, and she pushed her legs once again towards her objective, swallowing the cold venom that was blocking her throat, tingling down her chest as she swallowed the sting down like a shot of hard liquer.

In truth, it probably wouldn't bother Alice in the slightest if her control slipped, because Alice felt nothing close to regret, nor did she feel pity for anyone. Ever. Still, for some reason, there was an unspoken plead in her that felt that this girl haunting her visions was somehow going to become someone vitally important to her. As if her conscience already _knew_, already _loved _this girl inside the grungy diner in front of her. Alice scoffed at the thought; she knew she didn't love her––that emotion left her the day she woke up as this mosterous being. There was just this part of her that was simply too miserable, one could call it her heart (when using the term very loosely) that had conceived this false hope of loving again, caring for someone.

That small obstinate part of her was what spurred her desire to come here tonight, it fought it's ways through Alice's careless spirits and pushed until Alice felt unhinged with irritation. Why was she in any way, shape, or form relevant to Alice and her undead existence today? Why did she feel as if ignoring her desire to find this girl feel dreadfully consequential?

She was here to find out these answers that had been plaguing her mind each lonely night. She often would lay on edges of apartment rooftops at early hours of the morning, when the birds were still silent, and the city was asleep, nearly every living man and woman, girl and boy inhaling and exhaling together in a muffled symphony, with the exception of snorers, like one big breathing species. It fascinated Alice, but wasn't near enough to prevent her adamant boredom. Lately, she hadn't had the time or patience to listen to the vital humans breathing their fill of oxogen, because the girl's doe eyes and long, curly brown hair were always behind her eyelids. Always haunting her in the back of her mind, like an ever constant reminder of someone she found entirely annoying. A girl she had yet to meet, but seemed to already have some strange connection with. That connection had been formed through her ability as a vampire, that for the first time in decades, was beginning to aggravate her.

She was capable of having an insight into the future, a convinient power that she used constantly. She would know exactly how much money she would make on certain days of the week at the club, what days other nomad vampires would crossing through the city for a _taste _of Chicago, the days her mailbox would recieve yet another letter, just exactly like the other dozens she never opened. She knew that goddamn cursive Italian handwriting was written in blood.

Her ability was extremely convenient when someone would grow suspicious of her, picking up the pieces of her true identity behind the disguise of Alice Brandon––local stripper who wouldn't end up going anywhere but the fucked up streets and drug infested motels. The men––they could slip money into her panties and bra, maybe even if they were lucky they would get a lap dance, but that was the only contact Alice had with humans. Her demeanor scared the fuck out of the people close enough to see it, and as for everyone else...the unintelligible, mindless idiots whom lacked self-preservation? They paid dearly for it, usually with their lives.

There was Stan Greinke. Thirty-four years old. She slit his throat on a beautiful August night in between the Lane's Tobacco and Drug and a run down, rat infested alley. My insight after he was cold and limp revealed that his wife wouldn't cry anymore. She cried when she police man showed up at her doorstep with the news. Tears of joy, if that shows you what kind of man he was.

Another, Dale Tollison. Fourty-seven years old. His blood stream was so plagued and infected with methamphedamine and cocaine she wouldn't dare let come anywhere near her. His rotton, torn and black arms tried to reach for her but he was rendered useless with a twist of his neck. He died on an abandoned dock, and his watery tomb rests at the bottom of a Lake, far, far away from anymore little children. Apparently, drugs was not his only addiction. He would rot in Hell along side Alice, she thought.

There were only about a dozen or so that she had taken, but she saw it as something that needed to happen. She was heartless, but that didn't mean she wanted to see visions of tortured souls down below, crying and sobbing in misery while she gazed down on rooftops like it was some sort of twisted show; she didn't take pleasure from sick crimes. That didn't mean she was some goddamn savior of humanity, watching out for the people of Chicago, though. No, she was just doing it for her own sake, not theirs. That's what she told herself.

Some way or another, humans discovered one of the crimes, and ever since, her life has been fairly troubleless. Nobody bothered her. Eventually, her reputation was perfected into exactly what she had ideally hoped for. People generally stayed the fuck away from her; she heard their whispers of the humans, telling stories of her harsh and cold exterior, of the rumors that she had murdered and done wild, unknown acts of cruelty. Men were drawn to that––the element of fear and dominance she radiated. Not even counting the fact that she was made to attract the human population. They couldn't resist her flawless, creamy skin. Her perfect bone structure. Her full, pouty red lips...and her eyes could hypnotize any man with a simple glance. Her voice, though, was rather alluring, she sang sometimes for her act when she danced. Those were the nights she made a grand or two. Being a vampire had it's advantages. The entire male population was at her feet. Her prey would willingly come to her even knowing of her past; they didn't stand a chance.

Alice was completely powerless, however, when her psychic powers brought an image of a girl's face for the first time. It flashed through her mind, permanently engraining itself into Alice's impeccable memory forever. The sight of this girl's face completely aggravated her; she didn't know why it came or who it was. She pushed her mind so hard to find another visionary source, to find out the signifigance of the vision. It was futile; she didn't have any control of her power when it came to this specific girl. Though it never ceased to return, it just became clearer and clearer until Alice knew the girl's proportions and facial features from every angle, every side. The problem was that Alice simply could not search for the girl, which nagged the fuck out of her. She didn't have the ability to trace the nameless girl's future, or discover the reasons why she was seeing her so frequently at all. As if the girl had a strange immunity to her power, like a fucking _wall _was built around her future. The frustration started there, because Alice had _never_ encountered someone who had immunity from her visions. Partially, at least, because Alice sure as hell could see her. She just didn't know why.

Alice reached the door handle and loosely flicked it back, trying to keep it from snapping. She heard the shrill jingle of the bell above her head and for the first time, she met the eyes of the doe eyes brunette that haunted her relentlessly. Her eyes involuntarily narrowed, and Alice heard the girl's fear coursing with adrenaline through her pumping, constantly flowing sweet veins.


	3. Hushed Clocks and Reflections

**AN: The lovely SM owns all. **

**Chapter Playlist: **Rise Against-Ready to Fall; Atreyu-Falling Down; Breaking Benjamin-Lights out & I Will Not Bow; Five Finger Death Punch-Hard to See; Red-Breathe Into Me; Atreyu-Becoming the Bull

The broken clock is a comfort, it helps me sleep tonight

Maybe it can stop tomorrow from stealing all my time

I am here still waiting though I still have my doubts

I am damaged at best, like you've already figured out

**Broken, Lifehouse**

***Bella***

"What I'm tryin' to say here, Isibella," The man still refused pronounce my name correctly, "Is that we're broke. We don't got nothing, Alright?" Mr. Avery exclaimed, his hairy arms and wide hands gesturing to his cluttered desk space. "Don't take it personally, doll, 'cause your a good kid," He added in his thick Chicago accent, softening his eyes as he finished. As if it would make a difference. It felt weird, like someone's hand was squeezing my heart to see if it would explode from the pressure.

"B-But Mr. Avery, was it my work performance? Did I do something wrong...? I don't understand..." I stuttered almost incoherently, blinking rapidly for some reason.

"Calm yourself down, Sweetcakes. It's nothing personal, honest. The economy has been in the shitta and I already had to fire four part-times before you. You're one of the last, you see," He smiled apologetically at me, his wrinkles around his eyes tightening at the deep set corners. "I was trying to contact Jim, but he probably won't even come back to work, knowing him. The damn bastard, half-assin' on th'job." He muttered darkly, his thick eyebrows bunching down at his paperwork, forgetting I was sitting here...being fired.

Shit.

"What about the restaurant? Today isn't the last day it's open, there's still time. I still can do some work around here until it's closed, right? Please, I wouldn't ask unless..." I didn't finish my sentence, figuring my pride was at stake here. I convinced myself to keep quiet––this man has bigger problems than me being evicted in less than a week. His entire business is being closed down, and he's not going to care about one of his fifty employees, especially one whose name he still has yet to master, even after a year of employment.

"Kid, don't make this any harder than it has to be. I think you and I both know how tough times are lately, obviously with the diner, but I wish I could help." His barrel shaped form sighed deeply and he wiped at his salt and pepper beard, looking up at me, "I do––really. If I find a local job opening and I'm still in the city, I'll call you, huh? Sound alright?" He looked relieved at the prospect of having help for me, and I didn't bother smothering his idea.

I nodded, and swallowed as I stood, not having the energy to tell him my phone services got cut two months ago; I hadn't been able to pay the bills. My tight covered legs quivered, and I hoped he didn't notice. "Well, Thank you for your help." I smiled as convincingly as I could at him and tried not to look like I felt. Sick. "Goodbye, Mr. Avery."

His response was cut off by the office door closing behind me. I walked across the length of the bar, and pushed open the diner entrance, listening to the jingle of the bell for the last time.

My head was whirling as I walked home. It felt like I had seasickness, and I stumbled twice as much as I usually did as I cross the road next to the diner, pushing through until I was on the right side of the road, walking with the crowd of fast paced business workers and occasional bicyclists, instead of running into them.

Everyone around me walked so rapidly, they all blurred into quick streaking lines and I felt like the world was moving way too fast, like it was stuck on fast forward, and it brought a sense of helplessness with the sight, along with the nausea. _Who's gonna help me?_ I felt sick. I felt stuck. I felt _lonely._

I thought of my Mother's smile, of the better days when she would take me down to the stream on our old plantation and we would eat my favorite lunch––a massive watermelon we would split in two and eat with two hands that always ended up soaked and sticky with juice, like it was a sandwich. I remembered my father's chuckle and his long nights filling out paperwork at his big, chestnut desk when he would catch me watching and let me sit on his lap for hours just because, admiring his dark mustache...

After a moment, I found that I was comfortable enough to stop my panicking, but not too comfortable. Looking straight ahead made me feel nauseous. Instead, I looked up at the street lamps, up at the balconies of apartments, and rooftops. It felt like if I focused on unmoving, stable objects then maybe everything would be okay. Eventually, it helped my breathing slow down and cleared my jumbled thoughts that involved sleeping in a torn sleeping bag under the city park bridge._ God, I'm dramatic_.

Focusing on breathing evenly, I walked the rest of the way home, twelve blocks away, to my apartment. My eyes squinted up at the hot sun beating down on my black button up shirt––it was an unusually hot day here, considering it was still September. Unconsciously, I pulled my clingy shirt away from my torso and let some air waft up my soaked chest. It felt so, so very good.

By the time I reached the apartment stair leading up to the door my cheeks were flushed in heat, and my shirt was damp with sweat. I felt exhausted, and my only thought was revolving around sleep. I climbed the four stories of metal stairs sleepily and exhaled in relief when I got to my floor. "Thank Lord," I sighed at my paint-chipped door, fumbling with my many keys as I shoved them in and yanked them to the left. The groan and scrape of wood was welcoming as I leaned my shoulder heavily on it until gave, squealing open, and making me stagger into the room.

I made sure my lock was secured, remembering the face of my neighbor's unnerving grey eyes watching me climb the steps, leering at my sweaty body––A chill rattled up my spine. I walked into my one room apartment, and threw my keys down on one of the two small end tables.

My apartment was dreadfully boring, but it was the epitome of simplicity. It had white, ugly walls that had scuffs and spots of I don't even know what littering the surface. The room was square, with one single, half open window across from the door, and one door to the left, the bathroom. To my right, was my makeshift kitchen. It consisted of a small refrigerator and a small countertop. I had cereal, and bread, and...milk. Most of my meals were leftovers I scrapped together at the diner, so it wasn't common for me to have food here. The only other flat surface was my nightstand, where a distressingly tall stack of mail (mostly unpaid bills) laid unopened. It seems to never thin.

My mattress, though, was the one area I was satisfied with. It was in the middle of the room, spread out on my ugly beige stained carpet. My tangled, unmade sheets were calling to me, as was my silk pillow. I hastily ripped off my damp blouse and slid down my skirt halfway, so tired my eyes were nearly closed, and I barely managed to slip off my shoes before I collapsed down on it with a 'humph.' Happiness, at last.

I managed to kick off my skirt the rest of the way, laying in only my bra and underwear as I finally succumbed to my drowsiness. It was the first time in over a year that I didn't set my alarm clock.

*************

**Already Over-Red**

You never go

Your always here (suffocating me)

Under my skin

I cannot run away

Fading slowly...

My best defense, running from you

I can't resist, take all you want from me

Breaking slowly

***Alice***

My dressing room wasn't an elaborate reflection of me. The only resemblance it had was the blood red velvet drapes blanketing the dark walls. Blood. I always imagined it in liquid form, running down the walls like a tasteful, disturbing slaughter bath.

Fuck if I wasn't twisted.

Five by five feet squared, it was just enough size for me to change and get the fuck out. I had one mirror, and one short rack of clothes––all of which were either leather or dark red––that consisted of my coats, hats, blouses, and tight lace garters. My lingerie was one hundred percent lace, and was hanging limply from the rack like they were hanging up to dry. On the floor, my makeup was gathered in a hazardous, cluttered pile right in front of the mirror.

Most of the dancers working here would make their work space––vanities and costume stands––everything they want it to look like. They brought pictures of their families, their friends, even animals to stick in the trim of their floor length mirrors or tape them up to their wall space. I saw them as useless lies.

Only one girl here had a notable excuse for a picture of her family––a meek little girl named Angela whom never spoke unless absolutely necessary–– I knew if it weren't for her daughter's medical expenses, she would have long since quit. The rest of the girls here had no purpose of taping up relatives and friends, they were merely serving as a decoration that would give the other dancers the impression of close family ties. Though I haven't got a clue as to why the fuck they even bother. If they were intelligent enough to realize it, they would see that strippers didn't have family ties––we were the girls who grew up with the abusive father, the neglecting mother, the dysfunctional family...you could call us the less fortunate children of society. Ask every girl in here––let them tell you about their years growing up. Hundred bucks says you'll cry five minutes into the story.

Others (I like to call them the "Dreamers") brought in scraps of magazines of sleek models, posing in a fashion magazine with bold colors and desirable, sharp features they could never have. Role models for strippers. Often I would find myself watching them in silent amusement, sometimes repugnance as they obsessed over their appearances, turning to see every angle, finding each flaw, each imperfection. They even sometimes began talking to themselves in preparation. Most of the dancers had the ridiculous 'knock 'em dead' mindset as they prepped themselves for an act––it was pathetic. Winking at oneself was not an uncommon occurrence here. Often the dancers here didn't even think of what their lives had come to as they put their bodies out there––it was like a dirty, profitable sport. Ladies here loved to spin and twist around metal poles, curling and licking their lips in a vain attempt of sensuality. Regardless, the crowd roared.

The problem with the women here is that they don't care about the hollering, boisterous pigs whistling at _their _skin slowly being revealed. They don't feel the shame as fifty-nine year old perverts grab at _their _bodies and shove money down _their _bras. They don't yet realize how much it changes you, how much it warps you into whatever _they _want you to be. All of those dreams of great success and the promises of good fortune...gone.

All they do know, is that they feel wanted. And that's enough, for now.

"You're on in thirty," an unwanted, annoying voice rang from the doorway. Unfazed, I didn't look up from the mirror as I applied black liner to my eyes––I had foreseen the interruption five minutes prior the actual occurrence. "Yeah, I know," I snap, still drawing the perfectly straight line. After I coated on my lipstick, I leaned back from my reflection and stared.

The average human eye wouldn't see the hidden traces of blood red streaking into the golden warmth of my irises, a constant visual reminder of my last wrathful dinner. It had mostly faded by now––you would think six months is long enough, but it's still fading.

Unblinking, I stared straight into my eyes. They didn't look right on me, never have.

My gaze never wavered, if anything, I stared harder, as if I were trying to make the mirror shatter from the intensity of it. After a while, my eyes darkened, morphing into the deep, chocolate brown wide ones of the girl. I snarled at the sight of those achingly familiar, sweet doe eyes and my fist collided with her face. Shards of jagged glass rained down on me, and ripped little cuts into my trench coat, and heard little squeaks as the glass met my unyielding steel flesh. The bricks where my mirror used to stand were caving in and cracking in the spot where my fist had connected. Fuming, I couldn't find it in me to care that people would find that suspicious. I would let the damn humans make of it what they may.

I thought finally encountering her would make the visions and appearances end––apparently, I was wrong.

Like I knew would happen, the curtain of my dresser was yanked aside, and intrusive light spilled into the dark room, making my eyes narrow up at the face of the person responsible. It was a blonde––Lacy. There was a hot pink sparkling boa around her neck, and I thought of strangling her with it.

"Oh my God, the mirror!" She gasped, a hand holding the curtain aside while she took in the glass pieces scattered across the floor, "Why...is your hand okay?" She stared at my hand, and seemed shocked at the lack of gore. Her mouth was agape and her overly done eyes were bigger than her surgically enhanced boobs. I fought the urge to growl and stood from my knees, holding my collar as I shook out the remaining pieces of mirror. "I threw my hairdryer at it." I left no option of questioning my excuse as I flashed my cold stare at her eyes. Like many things, the power of persuasion came with the indestructible skin, the razor sharp teeth, and the black, empty eyes.

She did exactly as I knew she would, "Okay, as long as you're alright...I guess I'll uh, leave...yeah." She shook her head to herself, turning away with a look that made her appear ill. A vision overcame my thoughts, and I watched as the girl remembered something as she hesitantly turned around from where she stood, facing me to inform me that I was on in five minutes. Great.

The vision ended, and I rushed past her right as she began turning back to me, "Yes, I realize I'm on," I mutter, rolling my eyes, and effectively cutting off her sentence.

As I heard my song begin, I glanced down at my tattered black coat, and shrugged. It wouldn't matter anyway. It was about to be thrown off in less than a minute anyway.

I faced the black curtain, and took an unnecessary deep breath, then pushed through the curtains, blinded by the warm, red and white lights above stage.

Smiling deviously, I peered up through my thick lashes as I slid my tapered fingers around the rim of my black velvet fedora. Tainted fucking Love, baby. Time to mingle with the humans.


End file.
